


What Dreams May Come, Both Dark and Deep

by dante_alicheery



Series: And we fight the invulnerable tide. [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: Broken Circle, Gen, Minor canon divergence, Pre-Relationship, The Fade, slightly melodramatic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5223161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante_alicheery/pseuds/dante_alicheery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One never wants to disbelieve what a demon offers, even when one knows it can't possibly be real."</p>
<p>Morrigan wakes up all on her own, and even Alistair only needs a little prodding, but Corrine isn't going to give up her dream without a fight. No matter how wrong it feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come, Both Dark and Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Sleep" by Eric Whitacre and Charles Anthony Silvestri.
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism always welcome.

_Why do you fight? You deserve more. You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you._

\--- 

A bright light blinded Corrine through her tightly closed lids, drawing out a pained groan. Her head was pounding worse than the morning after she and Fergus had gotten into the Summerday mead. Had she been drinking last night? She couldn't recall— her life seemed like a void before this moment, but that wasn't as important as her blighted headache. She rolled over, trying to get away from the light and the pain, but her tormentor would have none of it.

"Oh no you don't. Get up, Corrine, and make yourself ready. I know you're exhausted from running Highever Castle all on your own, but your brother and father return today, and there is too much to be done for you to stay abed!"

It took her a moment to recognize that voice, and then her heart nearly stopped in her chest, sorrow and yearning churning inside of her as she opened her eyes to see her mother's face. Then relief swept it all away. Eleanor Cousland was alive and well, of course, recently returned from Caer Oswin where she had been a guest of Lady Landra. Corrine stopped, a frisson of wrongness fluttering at the edge of her mind. Of course her mother was alive. Why shouldn't she be? The darkspawn hadn't gotten far enough North to threaten the Bannorn, much less the Coastlands.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Eleanor Cousland asked.

Corrine sat up, pulling the bedclothes around her, and pressing a hand to her aching head. "I think so. Bad dreams, I think."

"Well, the best remedy for that is to get moving," Eleanor replied, beaming at her only daughter. "The servants have already drawn you a bath, and I've laid out the indigo gown, the one slashed through with gray silk? Oh, it brings out the depth of your eyes quite well."

"Mother, you're not still trying to match me up, are you?" Corrine groaned as she reluctantly slid out beneath her warm sheets and behind the screen, where her tub was waiting. "You know I'm in no rush to be married off."

"But with little Oren growing so fast and Oriana just starting to show, I thought it would be nice if their cousins were close in age enough for them to grow up together. Like you and Alfstanna." 

"Yes, mother. Because the reason I should be in a hurry to sell off my hand is so Oren can have a playmate." Honestly, some days it was hard to reconcile the stories she was told of her mother during the Orlesian occupation with the woman chiding her now. How could anyone who had brought down that many ships not understand she wanted an adventure of her own before settling down to whelp a brood of her own?

She frowned. Hadn't she already… Corrine winced as a dissonant whine cut through her head, like a fiddle's string being scraped with a knife. 

From far off, her mother was still needling her, and it was all she could do to concentrate on her voice. "Well, Dairren is returning with your father. I know you two had quite the conversation the last time he was here…"

Corrine successfully shoved off the strange feeling and sighed, leaning back so she could pillow her neck on the edge of the tub. The aching in her brain eased as the water warmed her, the smell of meadowsweet and evening rose filling her. It smelled like home, and Maker, it felt so good just to have a proper soak. When was the last time she'd actually bathed? She couldn't quite remember. "You sat us together at dinner, mother. I had no one else to talk to."

Eleanor Cousland swept out from behind the screen, favoring her daughter with an amused look. "And after dinner? When you followed him into the library?"

"I just needed a book!"

Corrine rolled her eyes as her mother pretended to agree. Dairren was sweet, and likely good for a romp were she so inclined, but he was not the type of man she saw herself with. Mayhap they could grow into friendship someday, but love? 

But of course, her mother wouldn't hear any of it. "Dairren is a good man, and he would treat you well. Maker knows you'd be hard pressed to find any better." Corrine privately agreed. For every Dairren Loren, there were three Vaughan Kendells. It was just that Dairren seemed to have no other interests outside military history. "Now move up a bit, dear. I'll wash your hair, and you scrub the rest of you. We've a long day ahead if we're to prepare a proper welcome."

\--- 

Contentment. He'd never known such, before, such peace, such acceptance. Sunlight streamed through the open windows of his sister's kitchen, the voices of the Denerim marketplace carried in on the breeze. He was at the small kitchen table, watching his sister— Maker, his _sister_ — stirring at something over an open flame, and the smell coming off of it was making his mouth water. Two of his nephews were playing with wooden soldiers in the corner, soldiers he'd carved for them, and he could hear the laughter of his nieces and his sister's youngest son in the other room.

He caught Goldanna's eye, and his elder sister beamed at him. Everything was as it should be. Well, almost. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Or perhaps someone.

And then the door blew open, a winter wind pushing past the well-tended wood and into the room, cutting through his rough-spun clothing which was no protection at all. The gale was followed by an irate Morrigan, who looked around the room with barely concealed disgust, before turning her eyes on him. 

"This?" she snapped. "This is the dream that holds you bound? A warm kitchen and a litter of your own?"

Alistair was on his feet as soon as the shock had worn off, stepping forward to intercept her. "This is my _sister's_ home. And you are not welcome here. Get out." 

Behind him, Goldanna looked up from the cooking cauldron, more curious than perturbed, and her sons immediately stopped their play. Behind them, in the doorway leading to the room they all slept in, appeared two girls and a young boy, all with the same, watchful face. 

"You live with your sister?" Morrigan asked, amused. "Ah, would that I could leave you to this life you think you deserve, Gray Warden. But the Blight will not defeat itself. Ferelden, such as it is, has need of you."

There it was again, that niggling feeling that something was off. Wasn't the Blight defeated? Wasn’t that all well and done, and it time for him to rest? But before he could speak, Goldanna came to his side, and contentment filled him up again. 

"Alistair? Will your… friend be staying for supper?" Goldanna asked, turning her soft gaze on Morrigan, who eyes narrowed as she considered the other woman. 

"A strong compulsion," the apostate allowed with a sniff. "I suppose I cannot blame the fool for being taken in. But no, demon. I will not be staying, and neither will he." Alistair protested, but she cut him off. "Think about how you came to be here. _Think_."

He glared at her, but already his mind was working. "We were in the tower—"

"Alistair, come and have some tea," Goldanna commanded, her face contorting in anger.

Alistair ignored her. Morrigan noted with satisfaction that even that was enough to start the dream unravelling. The sounds coming from outside the cottage were becoming muted and warped, the walls blurring around the edges. Any minute, they would be back in the formlessness of the Fade. 

"I remember the tower," he said aloud, certainty filling his voice. "The Circle. It was under attack. There were demons."

"Aye. And in the process of saving the wretched Circle mages, we came across an avatar of Sloth, and it trapped us in the Fade."

Alistair looked down at his feet, at the dirt-packed floor that was becoming a uniform, hazy brown. Morrigan spoke the truth, he knew that much, though it pained him to admit it. Maker, why couldn't he ever have something good for a change? "This is a dream, then. It feels so real."

"Of course it's real," Goldanna snarled. But already Morrigan could see hints of the demonic about her face. Purple flames dancing just behind her muddy hazel eyes. "Now, wash up for supper, and I—"

Clarity had come to Alistair's face, his jaw tight with determination, and he stepped toward the door. "If we're trapped in the Fade, the others must be too. We have to go find them." The thought of Wynne, whom he already had taken a liking to, and Corrine at the mercy of shades and demons or worse brought a chill to his blood.

"That may be the first sensible thing I've ever heard from you," Morrigan mused. "Now come, I've learned the trick for moving between dreams, and if we just—"

"No!" Goldanna roared, all pretense gone. Her voice deepened and the purple flames were wreathing her now. The children had already shucked their disguises, revealing their shapeless, shaded forms. "He is ours! And we would rather see him dead than free!"

Morrigan sniffed, and with a wave of her hand the cold wind swept through the cottage again, freezing the demon and shades in place. With a snap, they shattered. "Now, as I was saying, we need merely to find a nexus point, and from there we can shift into another dream. There seems to be no rhyme or nor reason for it, as of yet, so I was merely unlucky that I found you first."

"Or my bad luck," Alistair muttered as he followed after her. Maybe he ought to have stayed in that demon's clutches after all.

\---

Corrine smoothed down the heavy velvet of her skirt, marveling at the intricate silver leaves embroidered at the hem. She chose her leathers when she could get away with it, but even she had to admit, the dress her mother had chosen was lovely. Exactly what she would have chosen for such an occasion.

And what an occasion it would be. The Great Hall was all prepared, the tables in the Dining Hall all laid with the finest flatware from Antiva, all etched with the Cousland laurels, and Nan was putting the finishing touches on the feast in the kitchen. All was ready, and Corrine could not help the wide smile excitement brought to her face. The Blight was over, the Archdemon destroyed, and her family was coming home. 

Her mother came to stand beside her, radiant in a dress of forest green, the color of the rolling hills near Highever proper, slashed through with wheat-colored silk. She slid her arm through Corrine's just as their herald announced their guests' arrival.

Bryce Cousland was first through the door, in clean, though Blight-etched armor. His blue-grey gaze landed on his youngest child, and his face— a little more haggard than last she saw it— lit up in pride and love. "Pup!"

"Father!" she shouted in return, and though it wasn't exactly the height of decorum, rushed into his open arms. He was home. He was safe. All was right with the world. 

So why did she have this lingering feeling that something was wrong?

Behind Bryce stood Fergus, already beset by his wife and son. Oriana was raining kisses on his face, and Oren beamed up at his father, demanding stories of defeating the darkspawn. 

Corrine released her father, allowing him to rush into the arms of his wife as the rest of their party filed in: the knights and men-at-arms that hadn't already been released to the barracks, or back to their Freeholds. And behind all of them, a familiar set of faces.

"Ah, pup. You remember Duncan don't you? And Ser Gilmore, I hope? They've taken me up on my offer of hospitality before they head up to Weisshaupt."

Corrine rolled her eyes. "You haven't been away that long, Father. Well met, Duncan. And welcome back, Ser Gilmore." Roland flashed her one of his brilliant smiles, which she returned. It was good to have her old friend back again, for however short a time. She turned to her father. "Does this mean that I can—"

Her father chuckled. Never was Corrine Cousland to be dissuaded from something for long. "We'll discuss it later, pup. Though I suspect, with the Blight finished, the Wardens won't be recruiting quite so aggressively." Her face fell, and he clapped his hand on his youngest child's shoulder. "But that's not to say you can't keep up your training. There was quite an impressive rogue among the Gray Wardens. Do you think he would consent to teach my daughter, Duncan?"

"I think Daveth would need little convincing, my lord Teyrn."

"There," Bryce said, looking back down at his daughter. "Training from a Warden. We can hash the rest out later. Now, let us eat, and Duncan can regale us with how he bested the Archdemon himself!"

A boisterous cry went up among the men, joined by Oren's thin voice, and the celebration was officially under way. 

Duncan and Roland, of course, were to be seated at the head table with them. As was Dairren, as her father's squire. Somehow, her mother had contrived to sit them right next to each other once again, but thankfully Duncan was on her other side, so her entire dinner conversation wouldn't be reduced to listening to him gush about the history he was writing. 

She turned to Duncan after the meat was served, giving voice to the question she had been holding back since he'd arrived. "Ser Warden, where is Alistair, if you don't mind me asking? He was at Ostagar with you, was he not?"

Duncan's brow furrowed, the first hints of a frown forming on his weathered face. "He's with the other Grey Wardens in Denerim, celebrating. Forgive me, my lady, but how do you know Alistair?"

A whine of dissonance shrieked in her head, pounding at her temples, as she tried to grasp around his words. Alistair… she didn't know anyone by that name did she? At least, she couldn't put a face to that name, but a moment ago she had been so certain…

"I don't recall," she answered at last. "I'm sorry." She shook her head, and the sounds of the room reasserted themselves. Conversation, laughter, song. 

"Lady Corrine," Dairren said beside her, and she sighed as she reached for her cider. "If you're interested in the battle of Ostagar, I have been working on collecting first-hand accounts…"

\---

As Morrigan chattered away, trying to fill the void left by Alistair's unusual quiet, the scenery around them blanched, washing out until all was formless white. Alistair let his thoughts wander. How had he not seen that earlier? He had never even met his sister, only recently learned about her existence. Why had he suddenly accepted that he had lived with Goldanna and her children for years?

The answer, of course, was an easy one. To him, his lost sister represented all he had ever wanted, a family that loved him, wanted him. One that wouldn't send him away at the first sign of inconvenience or political difficulty. And there wasn't much chance of that now that he was a Warden.

Morrigan glanced at him, pity shading her frown.

He noticed, and was quick to send back a glare. "Alright then. Out with it. Tell me how much of an idiot I am for getting suckered in to that demon's illusions. I know you want to."

"Oh yes, you were quite the idiot to believe a demon's whiles when it showed you the thing you want most in the world," she replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. Even she wanted to belong, even if her version of it was different than the Templar's. "That's why desire demons are so difficult to defeat. One never wants to disbelieve what they offer, even when one knows it can't possibly be real."

Alistair huffed, unconvinced. "So how did you break out of your dream so easily?"

"Mine was not controlled by a demon of desire," she replied simply. But when Alistair wouldn't stop glaring at her, she huffed and continued. "My antagonist was only a minor shade, pretending to be my mother. And doing a terrible job of it, might I add. I barely had to fight my way free."

As they walked, the world began to color in around them. The sky overhead ran blue-gray with clouds, threatening rain, and the ground beneath became hard-packed dirt. Before them rose a castle, banners argent and azure snapping in the chill coastal wind. And above them all, one flag: a wreath of silver laurel leaves on a field of blue. 

He let out a soft gasp at the grandness of it. He had seen the Palace in Denerim, near as it was to the Warden's barracks, but this castle was in a league of its own. It imprinted itself onto the landscape, claiming all it surveyed by strength of will alone. Of course the Couslands came from such a place. He could see the grim, even stubborn set of Corrine's jaw in its line, her baring in its battlements.

Morrigan looked up at the castle, and sniffed. "I think I'd better remain out here."

Alistair rounded on her. "What? You're not coming in with me?"

"Whatever dream your fellow Grey Warden is having, it's likely not going to be a hospitable one for an apostate mage. Besides, nobility gives me hives." She crossed her arms over her chest, and she glared up at him, daring him to argue.

Obviously there was something she wasn't saying, but he honestly didn't care what it was. If he hadn't needed her, he would have left her here before she had finished her sentence. "And how am I supposed to wake her up all on my own?"

Morrigan sighed. "Your dream started to fall apart as soon as you started remember what really happened, did it not? That's all you have to do for her. Make her remember. Shouldn't be _that_ difficult. And in this instance, you'll be more likely to succeed than I will." What in Andraste's name could she mean by that? "Now go! Every moment we spend here is another moment the demon is feeding on us, growing stronger whilst we grow weak. I'd not like to remain overlong, would you?"

Blighted hell, but the witch had a point. 

Corrine had only just started to open up to him about her home and her family, but what little he could see of the Cousland's ancestral castle fit right in with her tales. It was a sturdy place, not a florid one, built to withstand siege and storm. And yet, there was beauty as well. Richly colored tapestries covered the white-washed walls, and rugs in the same heralding argent and azure muffled the sounds of his sabatons on the floor. 

He looked down at them when the noise changed, and discovered he was no longer in the rough peasant clothing of his dream, nor in the battered but serviceable armor they'd bartered for on the road to keep them from standing out. No, he was kitted out in full Warden gear, the griffin rampant on his chest, glinting softly in the torchlight. He looked... rather impressive, if he did say so himself.

The halls were curiously empty of people, not a servant nor a guard anywhere to be found. It wasn't until he made it past the main hall that he heard other people— conversation and laughter and the beat of a bodhráns under flute and fiddle, perhaps even a lute unless he missed his guess. Whatever was happening here, it was a cause for celebration. 

The tables had all been pushed to the corners of the rooms, as servants cleared the remnants of a meal away. In the corner, the band he'd heard was playing a reel even he recognized, and a group was dancing the Walls of Gwaren in the middle of the room, their steps resounding off of the low ceiling. 

Something shifted in the room as he entered as unobtrusively as possible. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it rippled outward as his eyes searched over the crowd, slipping past the strangers and familiar faces alike. Finally, his gaze landed on her. 

She was dressed as befitting her station, a dress instead of in the Cousland mail she still couldn't bring herself to part with. Dark blue velvet spilled over her softer, rounder form, and her too-long chestnut hair was braided into a crown around her head. Someone had even contrived a cosmetic ambush, for her blue eyes were ringed with kohl, her pale cheeks livened with rouge. Maker, if she was beautiful in her blood-streaked armor, tanned and freckled from their journey and hardened with battle, well, they needed to invent a whole new word for her cleaned up properly.

She smiled as she met his gaze, and his heart stuttered in his chest. And then she was there, in the manner of dreams, across the room in the second it took her to think of it. "Alistair, there you are. I was just thinking about you." 

She seemed like a different person, smiling at him like that so brilliantly. She seemed so open, so happy. The hollows exhaustion and mourning had stamped beneath her eyes were gone, as was the stoic expression, the stubborn set to her face that he'd thought to be her default. She shone as she did in those rare moments he actually made her laugh or as they bantered together, her lips twisted into a crooked smile. This smile, honest and cheerful, made his heart flip. "But I couldn't seem to remember your face. Isn't that strange?" He blinked at her, shocked by the admission. He shouldn't be, he told himself. After all, he'd barely remembered her in his own dreamscape. "Come now, you have to meet my father."

Her hand slipped into his, flesh against silverite, and she pulled him with her, through the throng of celebrating nobles, to where her father and brother— for who else could they be, with that proud stance, and the same nose between them? Bryce even had her eyes— and Duncan stood. 

"Ah, here he is!" Duncan roared as they approached, reaching to clap Alistair on the shoulder. Maker, but this demon was cruel. "The man of the hour. May I present to you, my lords, the Hero of Ferelden himself? Alistair, this is Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, and his son, Fergus. And you already know Lady Corrine. My lords, this is the man who slayed the Archdemon. Plunged the sword I dropped right through its blighted heart!"

A frown flitted over Corrine's face. "But I thought you delivered the finishing blow."

Fergus and Bryce looked at her curiously, but Duncan didn't seem the least bit perturbed. "Not I," he said, beaming at his protégé. And though Alistair knew it was false, that Sloth employed demons to turn their own desires on them like knives, he couldn't help but feel a flush of pleasure, of pride. "The bloody thing bucked me off like a rabid bronto. But Alistair here, you should have seen him milady, he snatched my sword out of the dirt and charged at the thing, screaming loud enough to be heard in the Fade. The thing spat its fire at him, purple as dusk, but somehow he made it through alive. I've never seen the like in all my years."

As Duncan went on to describe it, Alistair could just see it, could feel it worming its way into him until he could swear before Andraste and the Maker that yes, it had happened. He had been there.

And through it all Corrine was looking at him with a measure of pride and… was that interest? Enough to make his ears burn. It was then that she realized her hand was still on his, and she snatched it back. 

Too bad none of this Duncan's tale had actually happened, Alistair reminded himself. And that none of this was real. But Maker, how he wanted it to be.

The Teyrn of Cousland gave him an appraising look as Duncan talked, while Fergus' eyes were on his sister, a knowing smile on his face. And wouldn't it be interesting to find out where that would lead? What strange relationship the demons had concocted to explain his presence here? The thoughts wheedled into his mind, the dream trying to assert itself in him as well, but he tamped his curiosity down. He could not get trapped again. 

When there was a lull in the conversation, Alistair inhaled, bolstering himself, and met Corrine's intent stare. "Milady Cousland. Would you mind if I spoke to you alone, a moment?"

He had never seen her flush so thoroughly before. A slight blush, perhaps, as they traded barbs, or the heat of exertion after a battle. But this… this one started in her cheeks and spread outward, until even her ears were glowing like magma. "I… I don't…"

Fergus let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, go on little sister. Just don't take too long." He glanced a warning toward Alistair, but relaxed when the Gray Warden nodded his acknowledgement.

Corrine looked toward her father, betraying her nerves, and he offered her a smile. "Go on, pup. We'll still be here when you get back."

Was it Alistair's imagination, that small glance of pain on her face, before she turned to him? "Very well, Ser Warden. It seems I am at your disposal."

He gave a little bow, playing along, and let her lead the way to the furthest alcove. The dream, or the demons behind it, muted the music, which had been playing on a loop the whole time, and turned the boisterous conversation to a low hush. They seemed to think that he was caught too, and would do whatever it took to ensnare him further. 

Corrine looked up at him through lowered lashes, the apples of her cheeks still burning. "So… what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" 

He grasped at her hand again, and he swore he could feel the imprint of her calloused hand through the metal of his greave. "Lady Cousland… Corrine."

"Yes?"

How had Morrigan done this so easily? Just burst into his dream and broken him out with only a few words? "I need you to think back."

"Think back to what?"

"I need you to remember how we met."

She looked up a little, trying to access memories through the static that suddenly filled her head. "Isn't that strange. I don't recall. Perhaps Duncan could remind—" he held onto her hand tighter as she turned away, panic rising in him. If he let her free now, he would lose her to the dream. He couldn't save Ferelden on his own. "Alistair?"

"I need you to remember, Corrine. Please. Duncan sent you to find me, didn't he? Where were we?"

"Ostagar." The word fell from her lips, and she winced as another whine of dissonance sliced through her skull. She gave a nervous laugh, trying to banish the feeling of wrongness that hit her. "No. No, that's ridiculous. I've never left Highever. Certainly not recently, with the Blight and all the darkspawn gathering there. Father never would have allowed it." 

Gentle wasn't an option then. Alistair stepped in closer, until he was looming over her. "You fled to Ostagar, with Duncan, after Howe betrayed your family."

"Howe did what?" Her eyes fixed on his face in a panic, the whites of her eyes visible against the blue. "Stop it, Alistair. You're scaring me."

"You fled to Ostagar, and there you joined the Wardens. Don’t you remember? The darkspawn? Gathering the blood? The cup burning cold into your hands, and the feel of the taint like Tevinter fire in your mouth?"

"No." But it came out more like a plea than an answer.

"Remember, Corrine," he demanded. Maker, she would never forgive him for this. "Remember. You pledged your life to the Grey, to defeating the Blight. 'Join us in the shadows, where we stand vigilant. Join us—'"

"No," she pleaded. She wanted to stay. Why wouldn't he let her stay here, where her only worry was who was going to talk her ear off at dinner? Here, where everyone she loved was still alive. "No," she whispered, panic rising in her chest like bile. "Please, Alistair, don't…"

"As we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn."

"I just got them back!" she shouted, trying to pull away from him. " _Please_."

"And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

She looked away, closing her eyes against a sudden wave of memories, dissonance screeching in her head. She fought against it, against the rising tide of wrongness, against the images that flipped through her mind, but the damn was broken and they flooded through her unbidden. Howe's men bursting in her room, Oriana and Oren's bodies left unceremoniously on the ground, Ser Gilmore shoving his shoulder into the door and give them the precious seconds she needed to escape, her father clutching his bleeding stomach in the larder, her mother, sword in hand, as she waited for Howe's men to claim her life. 

Alistair's other hand wrapped around hers, and she remembered Ostagar. Remembered the fear and disgust that filled her at the sight of the first genlocks, the cold fury that drove her through the swamp and into the forest. Remembered Daveth falling to his knees and Ser Jory's wild-eyed fear. Remembered the burn of the Joining cup, and the Archdemon's fury in her mind. "'And know that one day we shall join you.'" The Circle at Kinloch hold flashed through her mind, and the demon whose sweet whispers had lulled her to sleep. It was a dream. All of it. Just a very pretty lie, and she'd known it all along. Her head hung in defeat, and Alistair felt like he'd ripped out his own throat. "I'm sorry, Corrine."

She swallowed, and when she looked back up at him the grim expression she'd worn at Ostagar was back, her jaw jutted stubbornly forward against the cruelty of the world. And her blue eyes were empty. 

"I'm afraid she won't be joining you." 

Alistair tore his gaze from Corrine's face. Behind her, the party had ended, the music and dancing cutting off as every disguised demon and shade turned toward them. And at their head was Duncan, sword drawn, his face a mask of fury. "She is ours," the demon spat. "She has been promised to us, and we will not let her go."

He heard the ring of steel being drawn, and Corrine had stepped in front of him— her family's sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. Her dress had been replaced with Warden armor, lighter than his and fitted to her slighter frame. He let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"I'm afraid you won't have a choice. You have no power over me anymore, creature," she spat, and with a cry of rage and despair, she threw herself at him. 

Alistair froze to see his fellow Warden in a fight for her life against his mentor, only shaking himself out when Fergus raised a sword and charged her unprotected back. Then he was there in an instant, the blade bouncing off of his shield, and he dove after the cruel thing that had made itself look like her lost brother. He would take them all down, if he could manage it, just so she wouldn't have to remember her blades sinking into someone she loved, wouldn't have to remember their face as they died.

Fergus fell beneath his blade, and he turned around just in time to stave off a blow from Bryce. But he soon found himself surrounded, swords and claws striking in at all angles. A lucky blow scraped across his cheek, another punched him in the gut.

And then a cold wind blew through the room, blowing the creatures back, and a raven that had not been there before landed in front of him, transforming back into Morrigan in a flash of light. "So you managed to force her awake," she quipped. "Perhaps you are not so useless after all."

Alistair huffed under his breath, having no air left for banter. He swept his sword through a shade in the shape of one of the elven servants, and it dissipated into smoke. 

Behind them, Duncan was on the floor with the Cousland sword through his stomach, and Corrine yanked it viciously out, shaking the blood off as best she could with a flick of the wrist. The false Duncan melted back into the Fade, imprinting an after-image of a desire demon— so very like the one who had so ensorcelled the Templar back in the tower. Maker, how could she have been so blind?

Just like that, the dream was shattered. The walls of the hall evaporated, leaving only the confusing geology of the Fade behind, minor demons and shades and wraiths where her people once stood. She whirled through them with her blades, striking them down with a vengeance. How dare they manipulate her so? They deserved everything she gave them and more.

All too soon there was nothing left to kill, and Corrine let her blades drop toward the floor, panting with exertion. Alistair watched her with a stricken look, and even Morrigan appeared concerned. She looked, she supposed, like she was going to fly apart at any moment.

But not now. Not when there was still so much to do. Corrine inhaled, mastering herself, and put her blades away. 

"Corrine, are you—"

"Fine." She had shut down, her expression blank as only those denying their sorrow can be. "Come on," she murmured into her chest, as if she had not even the energy to keep her head up. "We still need to find the others." And off she trudged into the Fade.


End file.
